


dread in my heart

by kermiethefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Canon Fuckery, Gen, Hunters in a Non Supernatural AU, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26434576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: “Look, Sammy,” Dean starts, and Sam watches as his brother takes in a deep breath and looks around the diner, “I know it’s easy to be paranoid. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I’m not sure this ain’t just some dream. But the lore checks out, and when we made the wish—”“It’s just difficult to believe that the solution was so easy. The fact that we happened across the right book about the Cintamani Stone which just so happened to be in the Men of Letters archives—”“—which we only discovered after about a month of research and a whole hell of a lot of ganking. C’mon, Sammy. This is a win. Who knows how many people would have continued to get hurt if we hadn’t done what we did. This place, this world,” Dean gestures around them, “this is a place free of all that. Just normal human murderers and corrupt politicians, like it should be.”
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 10
Collections: Supernatural Summergen 2019





	dread in my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Septembers_coda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Septembers_coda/gifts).



> Written for septembers_coda for Summergen 2019—I just forgot to post until this year.

There’s warmth on his face when Sam stirs in bed, orange and red shadows flickering behind his eyelids. While not unwelcome, it registers as something unusual in his sleep-addled haze, his brain insisting that natural light is an uncommon thing in the Bunker. Even more uncommon, and slightly more alarming, is the sensation of a body pressed against his.  
  
  
When Sam opens his eyes, there’s a blonde woman lying in bed with him. As she rouses from her sleep, she turns her face upwards, and all the breath gets stolen out of his lungs.  
  
  
The last time Sam saw Jess, Lucifer was wearing her face.  
  
  
It’s not Lucifer now, Sam can tell. There’s something missing in the pit of his stomach, in the hollow of his chest—not missing, really, but something whole and unravaged, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a decade. He can feel it in the warm morning sunlight easing its way through the curtains, in her soft breath tickling his skin, in the way his limbs don’t feel saddled with the burden of battles won and lost.  
  
  
A faint, high-pitched bell rings out in his ears, and from his other side, his phone vibrates.  
  
  
Jess sleeps through an apology as he pulls himself from the bed, and Dean’s voice floods his ear when Sam finally picks up the phone.  
  
  
“It worked,” Dean says. Sam’s throat feels all choked up.  
  
  
“Yeah,” he responds, and Dean’s disbelieving laughter nearly brings tears to his eyes. “I think it did.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Dean rolls up to his house—Sam’s house, a three-bedroom home with a big lawn and a theater room—a little before noon, long after Jess leaves for work. Sam sits in one of his three armchairs and stands at the window and paces around the house while he waits for the sound of the Impala’s engines rumbling nearby, but is instead surprised when the doorbell rings and it’s his brother’s face on the other side of the door.  
  
  
The Ford truck sitting in Sam’s driveway is utilitarian, with a mechanic’s workbox in clear view in the bed. Seeing it brings another added strangeness to this world.  
  
  
“Where’s the Impala?” Sam asks, brows furrowing.  
  
  
Dean shakes his head, his jaw tightening as he turns to look at his new vehicle. “Don’t know. I woke up in an apartment, man. Only one set of keys, and this is what it unlocked,” he grits out. His eyes go wide for a moment, shoulders tensing before he lets out a low groan. “Shit. Remember when I pulled a Marty McFly?”  
  
  
“Angel time travel?” Sam elaborates.  
  
  
“No angels, no time travel, no convincing Dad to buy Baby,” Dean finishes. He looks back at the truck, a little pained.  
  
  
Sam gives him a half smile, trying to curb the pitying tone in his voice. “It’s not a bad car,” he tries.  
  
  
Dean scowls and invites himself in for some coffee.  
  
  
“Can’t seem to connect to your nerdy hunter network,” Dean says once they’re thirty minutes deep into some cursory searching on the internet. “Though there’s still too many damn vampire movies.”  
  
  
“Plenty of lore sites,” Sam pipes up. Dean stuffs a third of a croissant into his mouth when Sam turns the laptop around to face his brother. “About 90% of it is wrong, though. And I can’t seem to find any verified sightings.”  
  
  
Dean stands, stretches; the familiar popping joints and groaning that normally follows doesn’t come, which surprises Sam, even when it shouldn’t. During his shower in the morning, Sam hadn’t seen any scars, and his body felt resilient and young, like it hadn’t taken decades of battering. He can only imagine what the change has done to Dean’s knees.  
  
  
“Alright,” Dean starts as Sam begins clearing his browser history just in case Jess gets curious, “there’s always one way for us to confirm things. To make sure all this shit actually took.”  
  
  
“How?” Sam asks, peering up at the older Winchester.  
  
  
Dean dangles his keys. “Let’s find a crossroad.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Jess is going to kill me,” Sam says as he swings the truck door open. The gravel lining the road is coarse, crunching underneath his boots as he steps down onto it. He hears Dean’s door creak open and slam shut nearly in tandem with his own as Dean’s voice calls out from the other side of the truck.  
  
  
“That cat’s not gonna use its bones anymore, it’s been dead for years,” Dean answers.  
  
  
They approach the center of the crossroad side by side.  
  
  
“She’s going to see that we dug up the backyard,” Sam counters.  
  
  
Dean swoops onto his knees and starts digging a little hole in the ground. “Look, make up some dumb lie. Moles, or something, I don’t know.” Sam starts to protest again before Dean holds his hand out for the tin. Sam hands the box over, and Dean continues speaking as he buries it. “C’mon, Sammy. We needed a bone, she had pictures of her with a black cat, the thing had a damn gravemarker. It was all lined up. The universe provided, and I’m not gonna turn that down just because it goes our way for once. Alright, stand back, kiddo.”  
  
  
Sam takes the step back. The midday sun lights his shoulders up with heat and the dusty road leaves him with a lungful of dirt; he shifts uncomfortably under the little inconveniences and waits for a demon to show.  
  
  
It’s nearly three hours, most of which is spent in the truck in boredom, before they decide to call it and grab some lunch. Either all of Hell’s lines are busy—  
  
  
“—or there ain’t any to call,” Dean says around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “I’m tellin’ you, what we did worked.”  
  
  
Despite Sam’s certainty when he woke up and saw Jess’s face, there’s something in Sam that wants to remain skeptical. Something has to be wrong because nothing is ever this simple, not for them, but there’s no denying the proof that sits before them. “No omens, no weird news reports, no sudden miracles—”  
  
  
“Unless you count the Grilled Cheese Jesus,” Dean interrupts.  
  
  
“Do you really think it’s done? Just… no supernatural? Ever?” Sam asks.  
  
  
He can tell that Dean senses his hesitation; he sees the moment when Dean softens around his hardened edges.  
  
  
“Look, Sammy,” Dean starts, and Sam watches as his brother takes in a deep breath and looks around the diner, “I know it’s easy to be paranoid. Hell, I’d be lying if I said I’m not sure this ain’t just some dream. But the lore checks out, and when we made the wish—”  
  
  
“It’s just difficult to believe that the solution was so easy. The fact that we happened across the right book about the Cintamani Stone which just so happened to be in the Men of Letters archives—”  
  
  
“—which we only discovered after about a month of research and a whole hell of a lot of ganking. C’mon, Sammy. This is a win. Who knows how many people would have continued to get hurt if we hadn’t done what we did. This place, this world,” Dean gestures around them, “this is a place free of all that. Just normal human murderers and corrupt politicians, like it should be.”  
  
  
The unsettling feeling in Sam’s stomach lingers, though he allows himself to be comforted by Dean’s confidence. He stabs a few pieces of lettuce with his fork and chews thoughtfully.  
  
  
“Sam,” Dean calls, drawing his attention. His brother offers a grin, one that turns soft and reassuring when Sam can’t muster a smile in return. “We’re good, alright? It’s all good.”  
  
  
Sam’s about to answer when Dean’s phone rings. He watches as Dean pats down his pockets and pulls it out; there’s a split second where Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost before he composes himself and answers the phone.  
  
  
“... Dad?” he asks, and Sam drops his fork.  
  
  
It’s a one-sided conversation, but Sam still understands it. The ease and familiarity of Dad’s muffled tone beyond the earpiece brings something complicated to Sam’s chest, a feeling last felt when Dean’s last wish brought John back in their lives for a few good hours.  
  
  
“Yeah, I’m just catching some lunch with Sam,” Dean says. There’s a tone of disbelief in Dad’s response, an upwards lilt in the voice that Sam has always been accustomed to at lower registers. He wonders what the incredulity is directed towards but can’t help the smile that crosses his face.  
  
  
Dean relays the details of the phone call once he’s hung up: they’ve been invited over for dinner tomorrow, Jess included. Dean’s eyes seem far away, distant in a way that Sam is unused to, but before he can press for more, Dean seems to slot back into himself and gives him a wide grin. “It’ll be nice to have a home-cooked meal, huh, Sammy?”  
  
  
Sam nods, finishes off his salad, and stammers through a lie when Jess calls him about the freshly dug dirt in their backyard on the way back home.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There are several things that Sam learns in the time between his return home and his arrival at his parent’s house the next day: he’s a Stanford-graduated lawyer working for the state of Kansas, he’s been married to Jess for twelve years, he is supposed to be on an all-liquid diet, and the last time he’d seen Dean, apparently, was three years ago when he had to bail him out on grand theft auto charges.  
  
  
“It could be worse,” Sam tries to reason after Jess’s near-exhaustive questioning about his afternoon with his brother.  
  
  
“What’s worse than stealing a car worth more than I make in a year?” Jess asks, eyebrows raised high.  
  
  
“Murder?” Sam answers, and Jess sends him a light shove to the shoulder and an over-exaggerated scoff.  
  
  
Mary is the one who answers the door when he knocks; even with every change that has occurred in Sam’s life so far, Sam can’t help the tears that come to the forefront of his throat at the sight of her.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
If there are several things that Sam has learned of this new life in the hours that preceded the dinner, there is one he learns during the dinner that jars him far more than the others.  
  
  
“I was so surprised to learn you two were together this afternoon,” Mary comments as she passes the mashed potatoes towards Dean for the third time. Sam gives her a quizzical look and she continues. “I just thought it’d take us forcing everyone to be together for you boys to actually hold a conversation.”  
  
  
“That doesn’t end in fighting,” John adds before taking a gulp of his beer.  
  
  
Sam and Dean share looks from across the table, brows furrowed in twin expressions of confusion.  
  
  
“Not that I’m complaining,” Mary quickly says, “I’m really glad you two are getting along. After Sam, well—”  
  
  
“When he left for Stanford, your mom and I thought you’d never get along again,” John finishes.  
  
  
Sam turns to Dean when his brother speaks, Dean’s face turned into something carefully neutral.  
  
  
“Yeah, well, you can’t blame people forever,” Dean answers. Something in Sam twinges with guilt, an old and familiar feeling, and when Dean meets his eyes, Sam can see the way he softens. “After a while, the reasons why you blame them just don’t seem important.”  
  
  
It still hurts a little, but it’s the most Sam’s ever seen Dean talk about things—about the way he feels about Sam leaving—since they reunited nearly fifteen years ago. He ducks his head in the guise of shoveling more roast chicken into his mouth before Dean speaks up again.  
  
  
“If he’d never gone to Stanford, he’d never have met Jess. He’s a lawyer, he has a family, he’s safe. What’s more important than that?”  
  
  
Sam brings his eyes up, meeting Dean’s confident gaze, and feels his throat choke up. From beside him, Jess rubs her hand warmly over his back.  
  
  
“He’ll be blubbering later tonight when we get home,” she teases lightly, her voice fond.  
  
  
An indignant noise comes bubbling out of Sam’s chest, one that earns a round of good-natured laughter around the table.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“Beer?”  
  
  
Sam looks up from where he’s been staring at the star-dappled horizon for the past who-knows-how-long, casting a glance at the beer bottle offered by his brother before drawing his gaze down to his hands. It feels like a century passes before he manages to raise a hand and take it, and Dean drops onto the edge of the deck beside him.  
  
  
“Thanks,” Sam says quietly. He picks at the label before taking a sip.  
  
  
Dean sighs, and when Sam turns to look at him, Dean’s looking out into the distance like he’s searching for the same answers that Sam had been.  
  
  
“Dinner was something,” Dean says.  
  
  
It makes Sam snort, shoulders gently sloping as he leans his elbows onto his thighs. “Yeah. Something.”  
  
  
“Y’know,” his brother starts, and Sam digs his chin into his right shoulder as he listens, “you remember back in, what, 2006, 2007? We were hunting that djinn out in Illinois?”  
  
  
It’s difficult not to remember; Sam thinks he’ll have the image of Dean strung up like slaughter stuck in his memory forever. He nods. “You said that we weren’t close in that world,” he recounts. The look on Dean’s face when he was explaining it all nearly broke Sam’s heart back then. “Maybe it’s a recurring theme.”  
  
  
“What? You not needing me around?” Dean says; Sam knows he’s trying for a joke, but it falls short for both their ears, too bitter to be anything but the truth.  
  
  
“Dean, c’mon. I think, in this world, we’re just… different people. And that’s not better, or worse, or anything, just—just different.”  
  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess. Hard to shake the big brother instincts after so many years, though.”  
  
  
Sam takes in a sharp breath, offering up a reassuring smile. “That doesn’t mean it has to stay that way, you know? That was who we could’ve been, but we aren’t those people, and we don’t have to be those people.”  
  
  
“We aren’t those people because we’re soldiers, Sam,” Dean says.  
  
  
“We’re not—” Sam tries to argue.  
  
  
Dean cuts him off quickly. “We are. I am. This world is different, yeah, and I thought that was something I could get used to.”  
  
  
“You’ve only been here for a day, Dean, you just need to give it some time.”  
  
  
“I’m good in a fight, Sammy. My job was to always keep you safe, and I didn’t manage that a few times. But here, in this place, where I don’t have to do that—man, it’s just a lot, y’know? A lot has changed. And I’m not sayin’ that’s a bad thing—”  
  
  
“Isn’t that what you’re saying?” Sam presses.  
  
  
Dean turns to look at him, expression imploring. “I’m not sayin’ that, Sammy. I know. I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time in, hell, forever. But I’ve been thinking about it, and even if people aren’t dying because some vamp gets hungry, that don’t mean they ain’t dying. It’s just… I don’t know,” Dean sighs out, turning to look down at his hands.  
  
  
“It’s just that we aren’t saving any of them in this place,” Sam finishes.  
  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
Silence falls over them, an unsteadiness resting on a rare moment of quiet contemplation. Here, Sam realizes, it’s not even rare—their whole lives here are centered around peace. Sam breathes through the tightness of his chest and gets the slowly sinking feeling of uncertainty and restlessness that leaves his stomach unsettled. He understands; as much as he wants to deny it, he feels like a soldier returning from war only to be shaken by the peace that surrounds him.  
  
  
It feels like hours before Dean speaks up again. It’s like Sam is seeing the parts of Dean that his brother usually hides away; the parts where Dean battles with himself to justify his place, his convictions. Sam can see it in the way Dean clenches and unclenches his fists, his jaw. He can see it in Dean’s stony expression, the crow’s feet around his eyes wrinkling.  
  
  
Dean doesn’t have a place to hide away here, so he has to do it all in front of Sam.  
  
  
“Mom and Dad are alive,” Dean finally says.  
  
  
Sam chuckles shakily, more breath than anything else, and nods. “Yeah.”  
  
  
“Jess, too.”  
  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
  
Dean turns to look at him, pinning him down with resolve, the kind Sam has always relied on. “I think that’s enough for me. That enough for you?” he asks.  
  
  
Sam smiles, then. “Yeah. That’s enough for me.”  
  
  
“Then let’s go back in there and eat some goddamn pie.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Three weeks pass in uneventful and forgettable days. Sam settles into his life as best as he can; Jess is the only thing that keeps him sane most of the time. He’s not sure if she suspects anything—doesn’t even know what she could expect, even—but he’s grateful for the gentleness that she exudes when they interact. She’s not walking on eggshells, exactly, but where she had once snorted her disbelief that Sam had forgotten certain things—the neighbor’s potluck, an important client meeting, their soon-to-be dog’s name—she has since adopted a kinder approach, asking in patient tones if Sam remembers that they had planned an outing with another couple from Jess’s work.  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sam says for what feels like the thousandth time; the names Ben and Cecilia pop into his head after the initial struggle. “I’m just—”  
  
  
“It’s okay, Sam,” Jess answers. The concern in the pinch of her eyebrows, the downward slope of her shoulders, her patient hands: everything speaks to the genuinity of her words. “I think you just need some downtime right now. You’ve been working so hard on this Summers case that it’s frying your brain.”  
  
  
Sam swallows thickly and nods.  
  
  
Strangely, work feels familiar. Hours of pouring over literature is nothing new to him—there’s so much research he has to do, prior cases to scour for precedence, that he falls back into a rhythm of throwing himself headfirst into work. As he reads, things seem to float back to the forefront of his memory; things that don’t belong to him, but the Sam who grew up in this world. _That_ Sam has fifteen years of law experience, has seen hundreds of cases, has even won a good number of them.  
  
  
With every new (old) thing Sam learns (remembers) in this world, he forgets something of the world he left behind.  
  
  
Three weeks pass with near-nightly calls to and from Dean; the most recent of them have been slurred, cacophonous sounds of a busy dive bar echoing in the background of the call. Sam knows his brother’s vices. From the way their parents and Jess talk about Dean, so do they.  
  
  
Three weeks pass, and then Dean calls and asks if he wants to take a road trip.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“You wanna tell me what inspired this?” Sam asks, tired eyes looking over the Wikipedia page pulled up on his tablet. He flicks downwards and stops midway down the page to read from it over the quiet, muted sounds of Metallica playing through the dodgy truck speakers. “Jefferson Rooney married presidential aide Kelly Kline in January 2017, making Rooney the second president to be married while elected. Kline gave birth to a son, Jack Rooney, on September 18, 2018—oh.”  
  
  
“Looks like Pinocchio’s a real boy now, huh?” Dean jokes. Sam reaches over and slaps his arm. “But hey, good for him. Son of the POTUS. Though that’s not that far off from being the son of the Devil, I guess.”  
  
  
Dean dodges Sam’s next shove with a well-timed, tire-screeching right turn.  
  
  
“So? Why am I googling old acquaintances while being kidnapped on a grand tour?” Sam presses.  
  
  
Dean gives him a side glance before bringing his eyes back to the road. “I tried calling Bobby,” he says after a moment.  
  
  
Sam stares back, mouth agape and eyes blinking blankly. “You what?”  
  
  
“I tried his number, all of ‘em, and they’re all out of service. I couldn’t find anything but his address on the internet, and he’s living at the same old junkyard, so I thought, I don’t know—”  
  
  
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the protective garment bags hanging in the backseat, does it?”  
  
  
Dean throws him an incredulous look. “The _what_?”  
  
  
“The bags for—for the suits!”  
  
  
“Oh. Well, yeah,” Dean answers smoothly. “How else are we gonna ask around for information?”  
  
  
Sam is fairly certain that Sam and Dean Winchester, the ones of this world, have never pretended to be law enforcement to gain answers. Then again—upon a second hard look at Dean, he figures it doesn’t seem like a stretch. Even so, without anyone to save or anything to kill, it seems like a strange move.  
  
  
“Isn’t that like… stalking?” Sam asks, flipping the cover over on his tablet and storing it back in his bag.  
  
  
Dean points a finger at him, never taking his eyes off the road. “It’s not stalking if you aren’t planning on hurting anybody,” he answers.  
  
  
Sam gapes at him, but, for once, has no response.  
  
  
“Look,” Dean starts, shoulders tensing; his voice comes out wavering, uncertain, “I just… want to know, y’know? If this is good. If this is—better, or worth it, or whatever. I’ve been going out of my goddamn mind waiting for shit to happen, but if I knew that things were good, then maybe I can let that go.”  
  
  
There’s a moment of quiet, of tension wrapping around both their throats, of Sam watching his brother’s steel-eyed profile.  
  
  
Then: “Alright.”  
  
  
Dean turns to glance at him, eyes a little blown wide and white knuckles tightening on the steering wheel, so Sam repeats himself.  
  
  
“Alright. Let’s do it.”  
  
  
“You mean it?”  
  
  
Sam shrugs. “I can’t say I haven’t been curious, too. So what’s the plan? Head to Sioux Falls and talk to the locals?” he asks.  
  
  
“More or less,” Dean replies. “Though I was thinkin’ we could make a few stops.”  
  
  
“Who?”  
  
  
Dean flashes him a smile that Sam thinks is supposed to be apologetic. “Ellen and Jo, Jody. I was thinking, y’know, maybe seeing if Jimmy is alright—” he says. At Sam’s raised eyebrow, Dean continues. “Just people I couldn’t read up about, y’know? People that fall through the cracks. Speaking of which, Kevin Tran, advanced placement? He graduated top of his class at Columbia. Just sold a start-up for a couple million dollars.”  
  
  
Sam grins at the thought; something bittersweet aches in his chest, a feeling of guilt and shame for the phantom feeling of Kevin’s life in his hands.  
  
  
Kevin was never interested in saving the world—here, unburdened with it, it seems like he flourished.  
  
  
“That’s good,” he says, genuinely, feeling the corners of his eyes prick. “That’s—that’s really good.”  
  
  
They let out twin deep breaths. Dean seems less on edge, now, a bit looser around the shoulders. “Yeah,” Dean answers, “good to have a win, sometimes.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
It’s not always wins, they learn. It’s not always better—that doesn’t make it bad, though. It’s good knowing that they’re alive.  
  
  
Their visit to the Roadhouse lasts less than thirty minutes.  
  
  
It’s difficult for Sam to see her, vibrant with a husband at her hip and a girl of her own completing homework at the bar counter; he can’t imagine how it is for Dean. When Jo comes to serve up drinks, Dean flashes his brightest grin, and Sam has to watch the way Dean’s face falls at the brush-off he gets.  
  
  
No flirtatious banter, no second look; not even disdain or disgust, just cold professionalism as she pours the drinks and is paid for the transaction. Dean had saved her life, once. Once, she had given up her life for theirs.  
  
  
Now—well, now—  
  
  
Dean doesn’t stay through his entire glass before they leave.  
  
  
They don’t talk about it; Sam didn’t have any expectations that they would. But Sam can see the way it wounds Dean whenever they come into contact with someone they knew—someone they called family—and the person doesn’t have even the barest flicker of recognition. It makes Sam want to grab them by the shoulders, shake them, ask them how they could have forgotten what they meant to each other, what they meant to Dean; it makes Sam more reluctant to knock on the next door.  
  
  
When they roll into Sioux Falls the next day, they end up spending an afternoon with Jody. Not on purpose, really; they’re canvassing in town, asking about Bobby (a man more elusive in this world than the one they came from, given how few people recognize the name), when Jody steps up to their table at the local diner. She seats herself across from them, like a mirror of their first meeting, and asks what they’re doing in town bothering folks about Robert Singer. She also sees right through their lie about insurance claim investigation.  
  
  
“He’s helped our dad out of a lot of bad scraps in the past,” Sam says to Jody’s hawk-narrowed eyes. “We don’t know much about that part of our dad’s life, so we just wanted to know. But, well—”  
  
  
“We heard he’s a bit trigger-happy when it comes to strangers,” Dean finishes.  
  
  
That seems to appease Jody. She leans back in her seat, looking over them thoroughly, before she lets out a deep sigh. “Look, boys, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” she starts, and Sam’s heart shoots into his throat, “but Bobby Singer died about five years ago. Liver cancer.”  
  
  
Dean is stock-still beside him, tenser than Sam has ever seen him. He wonders if Bobby had any family with him when he died. He wonders if anyone gave him a proper funeral. He’s had to bury Bobby more times than he’d like, but if it meant he didn’t have to die alone, then Sam would’ve done it a thousand times more.  
  
  
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Dean says.  
  
  
Sam offers up a smile, hoping for one back. Jody knocks her knuckles onto the table and tells them to have a good day.  
  
  
Once they’re alone in Dean’s truck, Dean doesn’t start the car. Instead, he rests his forehead against his arms on the steering wheel and breathes in deep.  
  
  
“Last time we saw Jody, she tucked me in when I took a nap on her couch. Can you believe that?” Dean says; he shoots for light-hearted, but Sam can see through it, his tone fragile as glass. “Just… nothing. Like we were strangers.”  
  
  
“Dean,” Sam starts, and Dean clears his throat and starts the truck.  
  
  
“I’m good,” he cuts in. Sam reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, and Dean clears his throat again, running a hand down his face. “It’s nothing.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
“I’m safe, I’m doing fine,” Sam insists.  
  
  
“Do you know when you’re coming home?” Jess asks, voice strained thin with worry. Sam feels guilty about being the person who put it there. “I mean, a road trip out of the blue—you still have work to get back to, and the shelter wants to do one last house visit before we bring Apollo home, and we have Darren’s house-warming party on Tuesday—”  
  
  
“Just a few more days, I promise. I might even be back tomorrow night. There’s just one more place Dean and I are going,” Sam promises. He looks over to where Dean is filling up the tank, his back to Sam as he leans against the driver’s side door. He’s been silent the entire car ride, the sounds of a newly-created collection of mix tapes filling the air between them.  
  
  
“Sam,” she starts.  
  
  
“I’m fine,” Sam insists again. “Tell me about your day.”  
  
  
Jimmy Novak lives three blocks away from the gas station; their motel is about two miles in the other direction. The sun has long since gone down, but Dean still wants to take a drive by the house before they reach out tomorrow afternoon—they are both nervous, anxious to see the family, but Sam thinks Dean still believes there’s a part of Jimmy and Claire that knows him. After Jody and Bobby, after seeing what’s happened with Jo, Sam doesn’t entirely blame him.  
  
  
Sam’s not expecting as much. Jimmy Novak seemed like a nice enough guy when they’d met briefly, but he’s not interested in meeting the shell that housed the angel he considers a friend. Of all the things they’ve lost in the face of everything they’ve gained, Castiel feels like a particular sort of grief.  
  
  
There’s a noise beside Sam, deep in the shadows where he’s standing a distance away from the gas pumps for privacy; it sets his whole body on alert, but Jess begins a tirade about her newest client, and that puts him at ease.  
  
  
That’s a bad decision in the end.  
  
  
“Gimme your wallet.”  
  
  
Sam takes in a sharp breath, mind blanking out the sound of anything except the shuffling feet and aggressive voice behind him.  
  
  
“C’mon, hurry!”  
  
  
When he turns, Sam first sees the gun. The mugger is young, wearing a grey hoodie—he shifts nervously, holds the gun limply, keeps glancing around. Sam wonders if this is his first time attempting a mugging. His hands go up, a show that he is unarmed; he can hear Jess’s voice echoing from the cell phone, asking why he’s gone quiet.  
  
  
“I don’t want any trouble,” Sam says calmly. It seems to do little more than agitate the mugger. “I’m just going to reach into my pocket and grab my wallet, okay?”  
  
  
“Shut up!” the man hisses, waving the gun at Sam. Sam flinches away from it, giving a glance behind him and praying that Dean can see. “Don’t—don’t try anything!”  
  
  
Sam slowly reaches down with his free hand, feeling for his pocket; he forgets that his wallet is in his jacket, tucked hidden in the inner pocket so that nobody can easily get to it. Meaningless, now. He starts to reach down with his other hand, dipping into his jacket, when the mugger takes a threatening step forward.  
  
  
“Don’t! Keep your hands where I can see them!”  
  
  
“My wallet is in my jacket pocket, on the inside. I just need to grab it for you,” Sam explains.  
  
  
The man glances askance again; back and forth, like he’s waiting for a pin to drop. Sam starts to reach again.  
  
  
From around the corner, the door to the gas station opens with the ringing of bells, and the gun goes off.  
  
  
Sam doesn’t even register it until his knees start to buckle. He blinks once, twice; the man turns and runs, just a motion blur of action into the nearest blacked-out alleyway. There’s a pain that blooms in his stomach, and the hand reaching for his wallet presses against his belly instead—when he holds it back up, blood is spread across his palm.  
  
  
Dean’s yelling sounds like deep sea calling, muffled and cloudy in Sam’s ears. He’s not even aware Dean’s holding onto him, not until the pain slams clarity back into his vision.  
  
  
“Shit, Sammy, look at me, hey, look at me, buddy. You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay, alright? Sammy, keep your eyes on me, that’s it, kiddo.”  
  
  
His body feels heavy, far too heavy for himself; he can’t imagine what it’s like for Dean. He goes limp, dragging his brother onto his knees, as he slumps over in Dean’s grasp. “Dean,” he says, strained, like there’s not enough air getting to his lungs. He tries for an inhale, and another; they sound ragged to his ears, feel labored in his bones.  
  
  
From beyond Dean’s shoulder, Castiel appears in a sweater vest.  
  
  
“Cas?” he asks, and Dean turns to look as well.  
  
  
Sam can hardly hear again, the sound and sight fading in and out with every slow blink. Dean grabs Castiel’s shirt, darkness—Dean’s yelling about fixing him, then darkness.  
  
  
“I can’t—I’m not—I don’t know who you’re talking about, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, shit, I—you need to call an ambulance,” Cas—not Cas, Sam’s brain reminds itself—panics.  
  
  
It’s better this way, maybe. Sam has died so many times that he can’t even keep count anymore. Rest sounds nice—sounds deserved. In this world, where nothing can bring him back, he thinks he might actually get some sleep.  
  
  
“This isn’t how it was supposed to end,” Dean grits out. He’s holding Sam again, and all Sam feels is the ground slipping from underneath him.  
  
  
Sam thinks about dying in the mud for the first time. When he closes his eyes next, there won’t be Heaven or Hell waiting for him.  
  
  
Sam drifts.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Sam wakes in abject darkness.  
  
  
Darkness feels incomplete in its description—he looks around and sees nothing, the absolute absence of light all around him, even while he can see his bare body where it is suspended. A moment later and he can feel solid ground underneath his feet, even if he can’t see it, and the weight of gravity burdens shoulders that feel a thousand years of torture old.  
  
  
He’s never felt emptiness, not like he feels it now.  
  
  
“Hello?” Sam calls; his voice feels so close to his ears, like a muffled inch-thick bubble is encasing him. “Hello?” he shouts louder, but no echo responds, just his own run-ragged breath ringing out in his ears.  
  
  
“Where am I?” he tries, to no response. “Can anyone hear me?”  
  
  
Sam swivels around, desperation starting to claw its way up his chest, and sees Chuck.  
  
  
Where there is an absence of anything in the space around him, inside Sam rages every emotion he can summon, his body shaking with it. “What have you done?” Sam cries out. His feet feel nailed to the ground, his arms outstretched wide as he tries to fight against whatever holds him back from attacking Chuck.  
  
  
Chuck smiles. Fear is a first-line feeling whenever Sam is faced with Lucifer, and he can see the family resemblance now.  
  
  
“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Chuck says. Sam trembles; a tear makes its way down his cheek. “Let’s see how you boys do with a couple edits to the story.”  
  
  
“What—what do you mean, what are you—” Sam starts, eyes wide.  
  
  
Chuck lifts a hand and snaps.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There’s warmth on his face when Sam stirs in bed, orange and red shadows flickering behind his eyelids. While not unwelcome, it registers as something unusual in his sleep-addled haze, his brain insisting that natural light is an uncommon thing in the Bunker. Even more uncommon is the sound of cars passing in the distance, too close to their isolated home to be real.  
  
  
“Sam,” comes Castiel’s deep timbre voice. Sam blinks his eyes open, pushing up out of bed to come face-to-face with the angel. “Finally. I was worried that the spell was done incorrectly. I’ve been waiting for you.”  
  
  
“Cas?” Sam croaks out. Castiel looks young—younger, really, if angels could look it. He’s not the angel that survived multiple apocalypses and got burned by most everyone he knew for it, but the one Sam met all those years ago, a God-fearing and faithful soldier. Sam looks around the room—motel room, which he’s all-too familiar with—and drops his eyes on Dean still lying on the other bed. A quick inventory of his body confirms his suspicions: they’ve traveled back in time to before the apocalypse kicked off, his body still iron-thick and stocky. He raises wide eyes to Cas. “Did—did it work?”  
  
  
“Yes,” Cas responds confidently. He seems unused to his body, to the newness; Sam understands, his own body an unfamiliar place without the time spent in the Cage. “Chuck feels incomplete here, like the human I thought he was when we first met. I believe that he isn’t expecting this turn of events. Our plan might just work.”  
  
  
Dean starts to rouse, heavy breathing turning short and alert, and Sam takes in a deep breath, resolution settling onto his face. “We don’t have much time. We need to find Crowley and get some souls to have enough firepower to take Chuck down.”  
  
  
A car passes on the highway outside their motel window, and a faint, high-pitched bell rings out in his ears, like the final note on a typewriter’s page.


End file.
